To Be or not to Be

I am there somewhere on a soft white beach, with the expansive blue green and sometimes cerulean ocean beckoning. When I walk on the sand it feels soft as cotton wool. The dolphins are coming to me and inviting me to their home in the lagoon.  A larger than life mermaid watches from a distance and enjoys my discomfort about entering the very lively water. She smiles imperiously but says nothing. She continues to stare at the waves chasing each other as if they are playing catch me if you can. Everything is so alive, so full of movement and the good old joi de vivre. Even the blue and yellow striped sea perch turn up their noses at me when they see me struggling to stay on the sand which, by the way, is also moving under my bare feet each time a wave comes and kisses them. I hold on to my sun glasses because if they fall off and the waves take them away, then I will be blinded by daylight. The sunshine is very strong and I am constantly screwing my eyes in order to control my excited pupils, so the sun glasses help me some.

In a split second, I decide I want to travel. Somehow. Anyhow. By hook or by crook. Worst case scenario, I am ready to become a travel guide with a local travel agency. My formal education includes a Masters degree in Management which for the time being, will take a backseat. But travel I will.

Now I am an executive with Travelbug Tours, without a degree in Travel and Tourism but consumed with an ambition to serve this industry. I have come out of my university with a burning passion to travel, rather than manage organizations. Most of the time, I do not know whether I am coming or going, especially when these pretty ladies from all over the world, look at me with their kohl lined eyes and bat their mascaraed eyelashes when asking about the weather; I am totally floored. Just so delightedly confused! Their own menfolk don’t seem to notice how irresistibly charming their girls are- I wish they would ask me.

My joy of travelling gets really stretched to the point of disillusionment when I run to the check in counter, and then run back to my customers and then run to the hotel and in between shout myself hoarse in a minimum of three or four languages trying to tell them what is what. While setting out on a 5 nights 6 days trip to Sri Lanka this morning with a 70 strong group, a funny thing happens. Seeing so many of us, the airline opens up a counter especially for my group which I think is rather nice. But what happens after that is not so nice and I hang my head in shame. 20 names are not found on the computer at the specially opened check in counter. How come? They say the tickets have not been issued at all. With authority and conviction they blame the travel agency I work for. Why? I have to somehow sort this out. How can we have 20 dropouts for no fault of ours?

I scratch my head and rub my eyes and try to pacify my irate dropouts. Some even start demanding a refund! Talk about jumping the gun! Sigh! They have no faith in me and seem to think it’s all my mistake. Deep inside, I am already wondering where I went wrong. No, speak to the Supervisor, my aching head says. There is some gap. We speak, and we decide to finish with the people in waiting line and then sort this out. It takes me close to 45 mins to check my list with that of the Airline but finally we are all done. And would you believe it? The confusion is because the names are not spelt correctly, Kyaw has become Chou and Ong has become Wong. Koh is Ko and Mya is Mia. Preety has become Pretty! Who to blame? But they all have tickets now so I guess I have narrowly escaped an assault. And thank God I will not be sacked.

All in the nick of time because the boarding gate has started announcing names of people who haven’t boarded yet, and they are all mine!

Once inside the aircraft, swapping begins! You know, friends want to sit with friends, hmm? I want to run and hide, but I know I have to deal with this. The passengers who are not part of my group are already frowning and bracing for a noisy ride (maybe turbulent too, looking at the weather!) to destination Colombo. The pursers and air hostesses are giving me sympathetic glances and I hate them all. I need a cold towel.

I am unable to decide whether to sit in the front and bear the full brunt of the impact in case of a mid-air collision or to sit in the rear and be at risk of being swept away if the tail unit disintegrates and falls off…. Intrepid traveler, is it? Chanting my salvation mantra I sit on 26D, really the approximate middle middle, and hope to be saved. I have places to go and things to do, so minimize the risk, my conscience tells me. The world needs you, it says.

With these positive thoughts I drift into blissful slumber, but the children won’t leave me. I have three sling bags to look after. And five pairs of shoes. They are all in the water after presuming that I was born to look after their shoes and bags. And five children are pestering me to go play a frisbee game. My eyes are on that bottle of wine which everyone is enjoying. It’s one of my mid-priced favorites and I bought it for the group I am travelling with. But it looks like I am invisible- no one seems to notice me and offer me some wine.

I wake up with a start to hear the landing announcement. I missed out on the snack and the drink too! What a shame! Shepherding my 70 strong brood, I thankfully step into the Volvo bus that will take us places. Lunch is two hours away and I haven’t had breakfast.

Sigh! Did I ask for it?

Bits of Paper

I was tired of receiving pink slips. Even in my dreams, I would find these little slips of paper floating around, jeering at me, ready to tear me to bits. I would wake up, and then find that my manuscript was still on my writing desk and hadn’t seen the Editors pen yet. I would then screw my eyes shut tight, waiting for sleep and oblivion from the horrors of rejection.

Soon, to my utter dismay, I started seeing these even with my eyes tightly closed. I  started hating the color pink. In fact, one day I found myself hallucinating when I saw pink roses, and believe me, this was the most embarrassing moment of my life. In the hotel lobby, where I had gone for an official dinner, the array of pink roses sent me swooning to this stern lady Editor who threw my manuscript at my face and laughed out loud with disdain, “So, dear writer! Go back and learn a thing or two about authoring, and then come back to me with your story rewritten. I promise I will read it again.” I recoiled with the curt opinion, and came to with a squirm when someone jabbed me- and then heard someone asking me, “are you alright? Can I help you feel more comfortable? Is this the first time you fainted, or have you fainted before?” Obviously, I must have been looking ill. Like something with disheveled hair and sweaty palms that the cat dragged home. “Shall we call a doctor? The hotel must have a Resident Doctor on call…” I smiled, despite the recent hallucination, and plodded on with the martini that someone had put back in my hand. It felt weird and then I realized I was drinking martini in a plastic tumbler. I sat up and saw a mess of shattered glass and some sticky splashed liquid, which was probably my first martini before I swooned. I understood. Did not protest.

So this was my life, with the ebb and flow of thoughts, emotions and written pieces and also rejected pieces. After these seven years of authorhood, I had two prominent piles of paper on my table now- the “written” and the “rejected”. There was also a “pending” pile which had to be completed and awaited its fate. A small thin insignificant file of “accepted” sitting forlorn in one corner of the 4x6 feet work table (the biggest piece of furniture in the house) was my only solace.  And of late, I had started planning on starting a filing system for these pink slips too! Some publishers were going digital and accepting correspondence by email. Otherwise the embarrassment of having so many pink slips thrust in my hand would have obliterated me by now. I could almost imagine the grinning editor, the disdainful editor, the cynical editor, all owners of the e mail ids whom I had been writing to, and who just might open a goldmine for me, after they stopped making fun of me.

On one such day, when I was trying to figure out what was going wrong, someone came home. A ragged looking man called Stan, who kept saying, “I am the King maker.” You know what that means? It means he is very powerful. He can make or mess up your life. I hated him; just like I hate all people who show off. Reena had brought him home for a meeting. Reena was another one- I had told her many times to stay off my passion. I would manage to get my writing published; but she was constantly looking for someone who could get me published. And now Stan the King maker (read Queen maker) was here. Self-consciously I walked across to him to shake hands and offer him a seat in my home. Peremptorily, he offered me a chair instead. What guts!

Without much ado, he told me what a fabulous guy he was, with friends in the Government, Army, Navy and Airforce and also in the Mafia. And by the way, also in publishing. I widened my eyes appropriately and kept saying wow! Till my eyes started hurting and my lips started chafing.

“Time for some coffee….” I sang out loud, when he was in the middle of telling me how he had got an author to sell 5 million copies of his book translated in English. “The author was not so sure but I convinced him about the translation, and see what magic happened!” He was almost bursting out of his skin with the pride of his achievement.

Coffee took long to come; and the long noisy slurps alternating with loud crackles of cream crackers served in Celadon china, made me sick. I took Reena aside and threatened her. “Take him away before I kick him out of here. What a guy! How did you even begin to think that I might need his services?”

Stan sat there and bragged and slurped some coffee and noisily munched some crackers and then bragged some more. It seemed like all he could do was discuss himself. He spoke about how he decided to hang up his boots at 39 and spend his life helping people like me. “But why did you have to do that?” “Just so that no one would suffer like I did when I was trying to publish my book of verse.” Champion of the underdog, is he? “Oh, really, so you have been published already?” I asked him, with genuine curiosity, overcoming my first cynical impulse. A spate of name throwing and ‘been there done that’ kind of anecdotes followed, leaving me confounded and sorry that I even asked him. “So may I be guided to buy a kindle version of your book? What’s the title and who is the publisher?” I interrupted him just as he was embarking on another ego-trip down memory lane.

Reena continued speaking of him in glowing terms and in a hastily whispered aside she told me that obnoxious though he sounded, he was actually very well connected. It took a lot of convincing but finally when the coffee got over and he could slurp no more, I stood up abruptly and excused myself saying I had an urgent call to make. It was my house so I couldn’t be more rude. Hastily, I printed out a copy of the synopsis, gave it to him and wished he would go away.

I did not expect he would come back for anything except the money. Would not deliver any positive results either. And the synopsis by now, had become public property so I was not risking anything. Spinning yarns, anyway was my hobby, though not necessarily my bread and butter. And for this yarn, the embellishments could be changed if Stan tried his tricks. But I doubted he had the brains to even begin to read the paper I thrust in his hand. So for me, he was out of my life as quickly as he had come.

But my manuscript was still unread, unheard and unsung! The travails of a budding writer continued to haunt me and would not be slaked without blood. And then there were friends who would keep calling me and asking, “Have you found a publisher? Oh, you poor woman! Working so hard and burning the midnight oil; these people don’t have any respect for hard work….”

“Oh! How come no one is taking an interest in your book? You know you actually write very well- amazing language and such precise grammar.”

“Its possible that your story may not be very exciting? So what about tweaking it a little bit here and there? Adding some romance and some zing to it?”

“Hey you know what? Just get some well known literary genius to write the foreword or even a recommendation? You know those back covers full of good things about the book you just read or are planning to read?”

Feverish and consumed, I understood that each advice translated into an umbrella statement, “Never mind the pink slip. Never give up!”

Honest to God, I tried. And never gave up. There was a day in my life when, as I sat for breakfast, I noticed a pink piece of paper under the table mat. I screamed as if I had seen a ghost. “Will thou hound me here as well?” The housekeeper came running out and kind of pacified me. I dared not look at the dining table lest I see that pink paper again. But the evil woman dug it out and handed it to me. “This is the bill from the laundry. Give me the money so I can go and pick up the blankets.”

I went to see my Professor at the University where I had completed my Masters in Economics. Won three Gold Medals. Was offered a Faculty position as a career. I had spurned all that and now my Prof, on hearing my life story, simply said, “Talent is wasted.” That’s it. “Talent is wasted.” Such loaded words! Such famous words….. everyone who is someone has had somebody say that to her. Determined, I plod on, in search of the someone I will be. Kiss my hand, someone.

Just one of those things

Sara sat in her perforated steel chair and read Vogue. This in Macau where she had gone with office colleagues for a weekend of reward and celebrate and felt very exhausted. After all, it was not easy listening to elaborate presentations through the day and dressing up every evening for a fiesta that continued till the wee hours. But she had to be there till the party lasted; did not want to miss out on anything. She yawned.

Sara’s wide yawn was interrupted by a face thrust so close to hers that had her yawn been even a millimeter wider she could have swallowed it. “Hello” said the face, “remember me?”

Sara- “Well…… no….. not really? Have we met before?”  Aside, of course she didn’t even want to know.  

She was kind of getting back her composure waiting for her flight to be announced.

The face took on the perfect camera look  of a very fashionably dressed, fully made up girl, seemed same age as Sara, but very comfortable with her surroundings. She giggled at the slightest provocation and just didn’t care about who was watching her. “I am Gina”, she said, laughing with her mascaraed eyes and deep pink lips. “Now do you remember? We met when our moms were doing social work for the flood hit population and they needed extra hands so we had chipped in?

Sara- “ yeah, ok….. so how have you been?

Gina- “ good…. Real good. Have started working and  am loving it. What have you been doing? What brings you to Macau? Of course, how stupid of me to ask- we all come to Macau to have fun! Right?

Sara- “ Yes, I guess so..”

Gina- “ so where all did you go and what all did you do? Oh, look who’s here. Hey Kevin, good to see you! Imagine, meeting you here of all places! We stay in the same town but never seem to find time! And meet Sara, my friend – am meeting her after 5 yrs.

Kevin- “Ginaaaa!!!!! What a coincidence! Holidaying, I see. Lovely meeting you here. Wish I had known - we could have spent some time together. And of course, I know Sara the snob….we work together and are here for an official  jamboree.” He smiled good naturedly.

Gina-“ Snob? Why?” She caught Sara looking self conscious and tried to change tack. Just then the otherwise silent airport came alive with a burst of ‘ting ting’ and all ears were ears then.  

The PA system was desperately asking all pax to evacuate the terminal because someone had reported a bomb planted on the premise. There was bedlam. Sara was nervous. Gina was blabbering incoherently or so it seemed initially. Sara could only understand that they had to go back into town, away from the airport. Panic gripped her and she started feeling dizzy- in the far distance she could now hear Gina translating to all pax who could not understand English or the local language used for the announcement. She was collecting a group around her and then leading them to safety. Buses were plying carrying travellers to safety.

Sara was surprised to find herself uninterested…. “What the hell? Will anything ever excite me?”

Someone pushed her aside to reach Gina. Kevin was likewise busy. Her other colleagues were not to be seen- maybe already safe somewhere. Someone screamed and cursed. Someone’s baby was crying continuously. Sara walked around aimlessly, wondering how to make herself useful. She regretted her cocoon and badly wanted to reach out to the milling crowd. But her self imposed shell made her reluctant. Her fear of being misunderstood was bigger than her fear of death or her urge to help someone.

Prolly born out of schooling which often divided the right and the wrong into such watertight compartments that it took a lifetime to find a middle path that could take care of the emergent situations all through life. Life was not always black and white; and to be successful one could not stand there without reaching out…. And improvising…. And managing…. And winning.

“Gina! “ she called out tentatively and Gina instantly turned to her, arms wide open… “hey what are you doing there just hanging around? We need you here- come on Sara  help us out.”